


Like a Thunderbolt He Falls

by havisham



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Cousin Incest, M/M, Porn With Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-25
Updated: 2012-08-25
Packaged: 2017-11-12 21:08:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,619
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/495662
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/havisham/pseuds/havisham
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Because he prayed for this, and <i>wanted.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Like a Thunderbolt He Falls

He clasps the crag with crooked hands;  
Close to the sun in lonely lands,  
Ringed with the azure world, he stands.  
The wrinkled sea beneath him crawls;  
He watches from his mountain walls,  
And like a thunderbolt he falls.

_The Eagle, By Alfred Tennyson_

 

 **One.**

He clasped the crag with crooked hands, heedless of the cruel wind that sawed at his hands and his face, and raked down his back. Silly little elf, it chided, why don’t you just give up? The one you look for will have none of you! 

He grit his teeth, and pulled himself up from this boulder, and then another. He had better things to do than to heed fell voices in the wind. 

That was what he told himself, as night fell over the north of the world. 

And it was many days of cautious hiding, and even more cautious search before he — gave up. What else could he do? There was nothing here for him. The smoke and mist mingled together in an impenetrable gloom that even his sharp eyes could not easily piece. He flopped down on the ground, and felt a sharp nudge in the small of his back. As he wiped the sweat from his brow, he pulled out a harp.

A harp? Why had he brought a harp? 

No matter. He struck up it up and thought -- If I will fail, if I will die, I might as well do it thus! 

He plucked at the string, and sought a melody he had learned long ago. He closed his dirt-grit eyes, opened his cracked lips to sing. It seemed like the thing to do, as he felt the need to sing out his despair. 

Someone heard him, and high overhead, another voice took up the song. 

 

****

* * *

Lashed by rain and wind, how many years had Maedhros hung there? His hands shook at the sight, it was all Fingon could do, not to slay his cousin by accident. The wind picked up, whistled past his ears. A prayer was answered and the whole world shifted, unsteady, askance. No matter how much Maedhros begged (and he did, beg that is, every word pulled roughly from his tortured lips) Fingon could not -- he would not do this.

Not on purpose, though his resolve trembled and he felt doubt for the first time. 

_Would it not be better ...?_

But. Actions first. His knife was out and shaking in his grip. It could now slip. Perhaps, and nick something vital. 

Time slipped by in a panicked blur. 

He did not listen to Maedhros’ voice, dried up like a reed, but he heard it, none the less, asking still, for release. (But not forgiveness, never that.)

“Kill me,” Maedhros begged. “If you loved me once.” 

Fingon shook his head. “No. _No._ ” 

He muttered to himself, “I have come too far. I must do what I have to do.”

And Maedhros was not so defeated that he could not summon up anger. He hissed, “Do you what you like, you mean!” 

The eagle shook its feathery head. _Quendi_ , it seemed to say. 

His knife was steady now. It cut off Maedhros’ hand, after a few tries. 

 

****

* * *

He wrapped his cloak around his cousin’s whip-thin body, and wrapped his arms around him. They skimmed close to the sun, high over lonely lands.

Towards home. 

 

 **Two.**

Many months later, he stood by the lake and cursed his ridiculous indecision. 

The mist rolled steadily over the lake, covering the dark waters with a dense blanket. It moved without haste along the rocky shore. Impatient once again, Fingon kicked a pebble toward the water. Behind him, the guardsmen made a polite cough, to alert him that someone approached. 

Earlier that afternoon, he had made his decision to visit his cousins, but to his considerable dismay, he was caught before leaving. He had hoped to make a discreet exit and be miles away from camp before anyone was the wiser, but, alas, that sort of thing only worked once. And besides, discretion had never been his strong suit. Both his father and brother had come down on him, wearing identical expressions of thunderous disapproval. 

Turgon started off, each word a vicious bite. “Surely you have done enough for them, brother?” Whether they deserve it or not, he could have said. 

(Turgon was still deeply grieved.) 

Fingolfin was more circumspect. He eyed his eldest son closely and Fingon gazed back at him quite calmly. Guilelessly, in fact. There was nothing to give away any guilthe may have felt. Finally, his father spoke, every word measured. “You have taken such frequent trips to the other shore. Surely they are not entirely advisable?” 

Fingon spluttered. Once every season (and never more than that) could hardly be said to be frequent! 

“They have done much for us too,” he said hotly. But he regretted this outburst immediately, having caught a glance at Turgon’s face, that carried with it the chill of the Helcaraxë. His brother’s mind was closed to him, and perhaps, Fingon thought, it always would be. 

But before things could come to blows -- or even bitter words -- Fingolfin held up a restraining hand, and his sons reined in their anger, and waited for him to speak. Dryly, he said, “Findekáno’s friendship with Maitimo has ever been to our benefit. If he should feel that he is some use to them, then by all means...” 

Fingon found that he could very easily ignore any ironic tinge to his father’s words. He nodded, and hastened out before anyone else could think to stop him. But still, he could feel Turgon’s cold stare digging at his back. 

 

****

* * *

But now he lingered reluctantly by the shore, neither at home nor where he had wished himself to be. A crunch of pebbles roused him from his brooding thoughts, and he turned to hear a familiar voice. With a hint of reproach, it said, “If you wanted to brood beside the lake, you could have done that from your own side, you know.”

Fingon smiled and turned to his cousin. “I thought a change of scenery would be advisable.”

Maglor watched him with a small half-smile on his face. “Admit it, our side is simply much more conducive to it.” 

Fingon’s voice was sharper than he had intended it to be when he said, “I’m sure _you’d_ know better than I, Makalaurë.” 

But the smile did not leave Maglor’s face. Instead, he said, drily, “Of course. I forget, you never brood.” 

Fingon frowned at that, but after a moment, ducked his head and accepted being teased. He watched as his cousin settled his own private amusement. When that was over, Fingon asked, “How is he?” 

They both knew of whom he spoke. 

Maglor shrugged, an elegant gesture, his musician’s hands spread in front of him in a gesture of deliberate ambiguity. “As well as can be expected,” he said. “And getting better all the time, I daresay. But for now, will you come in?” 

Maglor held out his hand, and Fingon took it, suddenly grateful. He said, “And how are you...?” 

The wind turned chill across the lake, they tramped back towards the house, lit from within against the growing gloom of the evening.

 

 **Three.**

Celebrated and toasted, he was already half-drunk with praise alone when he clambered up the stairs, nimble and sure, and made his way to the room allotted to him. And he went past that room, deeper into the house, until he stopped in front of Maedhros’ door. 

(He knew to be Maedhros’ door, it was a little bit finer than everyone else’s.) 

He gave it a firm knock. There was no response. Another knock, and he whispered, “Maitimo? It’s me.” It did not occur to him to say anymore, Maedhros would know his voice, surely. 

Nothing. Well, perhaps more needed to be said. 

Louder, he said, “I could stay here all night.” 

He couldn’t, not really, but he leaned hard against the door-frame and waited. And waited. He was about to knock again when the door opened and crisp voice bade him to enter. “Come in, or the maids will start to gossip.” 

“It’s little too late for that, I fear … ” The room was dim, the fires had already been banked for the night, and Maedhros stood quiet, and watchful. Fingon found his mouth had suddenly gone dry. “I missed you at dinner tonight. Unless you have reason to avoid me?” 

Maedhros sighed, “What possible reason could I have for avoiding you?” 

“Maitimo, you know how much I hate rhetorical questions.” 

“Yes, I know.” 

Maedhros led him to the fire, and there they sat, and spoke quietly for a while. And as they nimbly avoided the subjects that pained them they soon lapsed into silence. Fingon watched the fire with rapt interest, wrapping a finger around a braid and finally said, “Father says that I have declared myself by rescuing you, do you think that’s so?” 

Maedhros, who always wished to have his terms defined, asked, “What have you declared?” 

“He would not say it, but I suppose it is my love.” 

“Ah.” Maedhros sat back and looked utterly nonplussed. 

Fingon leaned forward, eyes gleaming. “Of course, here you must say that that it impossible, unnatural, and even if you were to reciprocate, it can never be.” 

As if speaking only to himself, Maedhros murmured, “How dull!” 

“No, not all. I love you — ” 

Maedhros opened his mouth. 

“ -- And I will never change my mind,” Fingon lifted his chin a little, in defiance. “I won’t, Russa.” 

“Have it your way then.” 

Fingon closed his mouth, and Maedhros leaned in and kissed him. 

It was confusion, noses getting in the way, tongue, and teeth clashing. Fingon pulled away first, flustered. He said, “I’ll admit it, I’m confused.” 

Maedhros drew away, satisfied, smug. “No doubt, but if you could...?”

Fingon, who was also not overfond of anxious questioning, or second-guessing, obeyed. His hands made quick work of Maedhros’ robe, to reveal a milk-pale shoulder, lightly dusted with freckles. 

“Interesting,” said Fingon, who was yanking off his own clothes rather desperately, as his cousin looked on with not a little sympathy. “Have you always had...?” 

“It is due to the sun.” 

“Oh!”

Fingon himself was both pale and tanned by turns, his Vanya grandmother had gifted him with skin that was lightly stained with gold, though now it was flushed pink. He untied Maedhros’ hair and watched it fall upon his face with unconcealed glee. His hands were free to thread through it now, to hunt through the coppers and reds, tugging, touching. 

Fingon had always loved Maedhros’ hair best. 

They stumbled — half-dragged each other to the bed, and Fingon flopped less than gracefully onto the mattress, belly-first. He scrambled to right himself and Maedhros was upon him in an instant. And in many ways, it was not unlike the times they would fight -- sometimes playfully, sometimes not -- during their childhood, now long-lost, in a faraway country. 

But, of course, they had not kissed then, as they did now. 

It was the newness of their bodies that was staggering, impossible to fit the sensation of skin, of mouth and burning touch with the idea of what they had been before, as friends, as kindred. They had touched, before, of course, swift embraces, as one might with one’s brother. But this was a thing entirely unlike the other, so pleasantly alien that it brought gasps to their throats. 

Was it, Fingon thought, as his hands traveled down Maedhros’ side, because they had scars now? 

Maedhros nudged apart his legs, and bent down to softly kissing the hollows of his throat. 

These were notches carved into their bodies, to mark time, and experience. His fingers traced a curved scar that ran down Maedhros’ torso. It could have been made by a boathook. Or an orc blade. 

Maedhros, in turn, found his cousin’s body to hardened and still thin, almost to the point of scrawniness. There were patches of skin that still held a silvery cast to it, as if they were still nipped shrewdly by frost. 

“What a fine pair we make,” he said softly, and Fingon, hearing him, rose and toppled him from his perch. 

“Enough talk,” Fingon said, a growl low in his throat. He began to land soft kisses on Maedhros’ stomach, then ones that were not so gentle, all over skin that was pockmarked and scored with hundreds of injuries, healed but not forgotten. He lifted his head to see what Maedhros thought, but his cousin’s eyes were hooded, his face nearly expressionless. 

He said, hesitantly, “Maitimo?” 

His voice was a rasp that could scrap skin raw. “Go on.” 

Fingon took him into his mouth, inexpertly, and drew away at once. He steeled himself, ignored the fact that Maedhros was laughing at him, shaking silent under him. It was odd, and perhaps in Valinor, as infatuated with Maedhros as he had been, it would have never occurred to him to do such a thing.

(Except on very hot nights, when he was alone.) 

Steeling himself again, he hollowed his cheeks, sucked in his breath and tried again. The noises Maedhros made were impossible to sort through. His left hand snaked through Fingon’s hair, winding a dark braid or two around his pale fingers and jerking back. Hard. 

It hurt. 

Maedhros’ hips lifted, insistent. 

Fingon ignored this urgency, he took his time. He slid his tongue down over his Maedhros’ cock, eyes lifted to observe his face, the way it flushed, the way his lips set in a determined line. He should wait, perhaps, for more to happen. But Fingon was nothing if not impetuous. 

He leaned in to kiss the bony jut of Maedhros’ hipbone, and rested, bred in the scent of his skin. 

****

* * *

They were settled in silence, side by side, and skin on skin, when Fingon, who could never been still for long, stirred. “I have done you a great wrong,” he said. The confession displeased him, but he said it none the less, and as matter-a-factly as he could.

Maedhros, who was much given to stillness, said, reluctantly, the words pulled from him, “You have done more for me than anyone else would have dared.” 

Fingon frowned. “I keep thinking of what you said — ” 

“You must try to be more specific — ” 

Fingon punched him lightly on his arm. “You know of what I speak.” 

“Truly, you speak without rhyme nor reason.” 

Somberly, Fingon said, “You asked me to kill you, Maitimo.” 

“And you did not. That is your great wrong?” 

Fingon buried his face in Maedhros’ hair, his voice became muffled. “I was selfish...” 

“Very selfish. Would it make you feel better if I was dead now? I cannot take your self-pity as well as my own, Findekáno.” he reached out and took Fingon by the chin, gentle, chiding. He said, “I really cannot.” 

Fingon nodded, his eyes suspiciously bright. “You are right, of course. And such behavior is not very admirable.” Unconsciously, he straightened, heedless to Maedhros’ dark chuckle. 

“Straighten your shoulders, hero! Who knows what fights are ahead of you?” 

Fingon jerked up, and hit his head hard on the headboard. Cursing, he rubbed the back of his head. “I wish you would not make fun of me,” he said reproachfully. 

“Ai, Káno, if only you did not make it so easy...!” 

Fingon shook his head meaningfully. “And to think, I never even breathed any mention how how well-shaped you are...” 

And Maedhros said, his voice a perfect imitation of Fingon’s, “And to think, I had hoped we had known each other long enough not to make such jokes.” 

“I don’t think so, Russandol _t_.” 

“How long have you been waiting to say that?” 

Fingon relaxed, his head resting on Maedhros’ shoulders. His eyes widened, and he looked out to the gloom of the room, to the dying firelight. He shook his head wonderingly. “Ages,” he said, finally. “Absolutely _ages._ ” 

****

* * *

Fingon woke to an half-empty bed, reaching out to … Nothing. The windows at the north of the room reflected a predawn gray sky, silhouetted by a dark shape, hunched over as if in terrible pain. Maedhros. Fingon stirred and pushed the blankets away. Maedhros heard him, and suddenly straightened, his face still in shadow. He turned from his vigil, and said in a low but carrying voice, “They cannot understand, my brothers, my kinsmen. Even you, beloved, cannot understand.”

Carefully, Fingon asked, “What don’t I understand, Maitimo?” 

Maedhros wore only a thin linen shift, its whiteness bleeding into his skin. He was a ghost, though he still breathed. “We cannot win,” he said. “The scale of Moringotto’s forces... We cannot win this, Findekáno.” 

It was as simple as that. 

Fingon struggled to find something to say. Argue, perhaps, that Maedhros was wrong, that his pessimism was harmful. He could scoff, and try to lighten his cousin’s dark mood. He did neither. He said, slowly, and in a quiet voice, “We must try, all the same.” 

“We have no other choice,” Maedhros agreed, as he crossed the room. 

Fingon slid over and patted the empty space beside him, which Maedhros took. When he settled, Fingon wrapped his arms around him. And he found himself murmuring in Maedhros’ ear certain comforting things -- oh, such foolish things than even children would have cause to doubt. But Maedhros only bent his head and listened. 

Even in the darkness, Fingon could feel him give a threadbare smile. 

It was only slowly that these touches, meant to comfort, became something more. And it was different than before, touched more by melancholy, if not -- exactly -- despair. Fingon found himself holding back, holding his breath, as if any sudden movement, any sudden noise would shatter apart.

But that did not stop him from feeling growing heat, inside him, and in their touches. Maedhros did not feel the need feel any hesitation, as he drove his hand into Fingon’s body, rending apart him apart easily. He breathed heavily now, and Fingon could see the flash of white teeth above him. 

Maedhros had always -- he always been -- steady in temper, except when he wasn’t -- 

Fingon’s thoughts broke apart under Maedhros’ steady assault, his defenses, already weakened, crumbled to dust. Maedhros’ anger was as potent as his desire, and Fingon felt himself responding, making strangled gasps that caught in his throat. 

“I would -- I would give everything up for you.” He did not know if he spoke aloud, but Maedhros’ mouth came down sharp against his, cutting off his words. 

“I cannot give you the forgiveness you seek,” said Maedhros, lips grazing the skin of Fingon’s throat. Fingon felt his heart constrict. His spine, curved against the softness of the mattress and the weight of his lover, straightened, stiffened. 

He spoke reluctantly, the words prised out him. “It is not your forgiveness I want.”

Maedhros maneuvered Fingon to his back. His hand were slick with oil -- where had he -- and dug in mercilessly into Fingon’s flesh. 

“I don’t believe you,” Maedhros said, his breath buzzed warm against Fingon’s ear. He pushed in, at once, and hard, and withdrew again. He left Fingon gasping and empty, whole body taut as a bow. And then again, faster, rougher. Again. 

There was no sound but the what bodies made, moving together. 

Let it not end, Fingon thought. _Oh V--_

_Oh, let it not end._

**Four.**

“You should go,” said quiet but insistent voice, and Fingon woke. 

“Oh,” he said with a groan, arching his back, feeling it ache. “You’ve killed me.” 

His whole body ached, there were bruises rising where none had been before. He shot a look at Maedhros, who merely looked back at without expression. Fingon scrambled out the wrinkled sea of sheets, and hissed unhappily as his feet hit the cold floor. 

His clothes lay in heaps across the floor of Maedhros’ room, and as he hunted for his breeches, he looked up to see that Maedhros was watching him. They stared at each other, before Fingon ducked down to look for his other shoe.

Maedhros, he was pleased to see, was not wholly unmarked from their encounter. 

“It’s under the bed,” said Maedhros, and Fingon frowned, and looked under the bed. 

“What in Arda is it doing there?” 

He dressed hastily, and then made his way to Maedhros. Without a word, he kissed Maedhros fully, ignoring the soft cry of surprise that escaped from Maedhros’ lips. He pulled away for a moment, and saw Maedhros widen his eyes, many expressions shifting just below the surface. Fingon moved a little forward, until his forehead was touching Maedhros’. 

Gently, he said, “Dearest cousin, listen here. We can win, I believe this.” 

Maedhros sighed, his breath tickling Fingon’s cheek. A little reproachfully, he said, “Findekáno...” 

Fingon looked him in the eye. He said, “We will.” His voice rang out, certain. 

Maedhros straightened, eyes calm. “If you were beside me.” 

With a smile, Fingon moved closer for another kiss, but was stopped by a hand on his chest. 

“You, dear cousin --” 

Amused, Fingon said, “Dear cousin? Surely, I am your dearest cousin now --” 

“Dearest cousin, you need a bath.” 

Fingon pulled away and sniffed at himself, and then shrugged. “So do you.” 

After some consideration, Maedhros nodded, and began to dress. Fingon did not offer him any assistance. His cousin’s valet, he learned, had been instructed to lie abed a little longer that morning. Together, they made their way to the baths, Maedhros’ arm slung around Fingon’s shoulders. They made soft footfalls on the polished wood floors as they made their way to the baths. 

Maedhros said, “After breakfast, I have something to show you...” 

And Fingon nodded. 

Together, they disappeared around the corner.

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by this song -- ["Your Rocky Spine" by The Great Lake Swimmers](http://i4.ytimg.com/vi/3D6DwskD3Yo/default.jpg).


End file.
